


Before and After / Perspective

by irisbleufic



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a question of state; it's a question of <i>time</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before and After

**Author's Note:**

> Tarrant has an interesting pronoun issue when it comes to Alice, which is obviously tied up in the language of _Jabberwocky_. However, Tarrant also seems quite aware that Alice is, in fact, female; it comes across in every aspect of his behavior towards her (I don't mean in a sexist or negative fashion). However, he insists upon referring to Alice as _him_ , and even calls her _that wee little boy_ during the scene when Iracebeth is questioning him. This ficlet is my answer to that particular riddle.

It's very frustrating, really, the way none of the rest of them seem to grasp it.

Tarrant is forever catching onto things before others. It's simply his way, his habitual attention to detail, or maybe what they all call _madness_ —such a limiting descriptor, though it's the only word upon which everyone can agree—has something to do with it. His eyes are made for catching fleeting, flitting things. And, of course, catching the obvious.

One _cannot_ read the prophecy without noting this: the Jabberwock-slayer is a _he_.

This has nothing to do with actual states of _being_ , of course. All of Underland knows that Alice must slay the Jabberwocky, and Alice is, very essentially, _Alice_. He is quite himself, regardless of size, although given to infuriating fits of denial with regard to the slaying and such. That, at least, is beginning to change, and none too soon. Even though Tarrant is dungeon-bound, whispers have trickled down to him, as whispers always will, that Alice has fled on the Bandersnatch with the Vorpal sword in tow.

Tarrant might not have minded a little more time, though, however crowded the castle at Salazen Grum. If Alice had managed to stay undercover longer, he should have liked to make him some hats to match that all-too-fetching dress. If he had remained the Red Queen's favorite, her bloody big-headed Highness would not have begrudged Tarrant the diversion. He also wouldn't have minded a few moments more, after commenting upon the conundrum of Alice's size, to inform him of his beauty.

Slim chance of that. If the Queen prevails, it's off with his hat and what's under it.

Alice will reach Marmoreal, of that much he is certain. He will deliver the Vorpal sword to Mirana, be named Champion, and will fight the Jabberwocky just as he must, perhaps in Tarrant's memory. His death is not likely to go over well with the boy—no, not in the _least_. They've grown quite fond of each other, just somewhat too late.

Tarrant, being very essentially himself, knows that there's yet recourse to escape. It's merely a question of whether or not certain parties with false aversions to politics will chance getting involved. Perhaps not. Even so, if Tarrant yet lives to see the Frabjous Day, he also knows with clear-eyed precision what will happen. More or less.

On _that_ day, the verse will disappear, and Alice's heart, _her_ heart, will be his.


	2. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between too small and too tall lies the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorting out the nuts and bolts of Tarrant's ways of thinking about Alice is incredibly fascinating to me at the moment. I'm going to dispense with the pronoun tomfoolery in this instance, however, as it kind of destroys my focus (which tells me that Tarrant's mind is extraordinary indeed, to be able to keep all the nuances straight). Writing atypical psychology is harder work.

That Alice had turned up only two feet tall had been no surprise. 

She had been scarcely four feet tall the first time she'd come, and either growing or shrinking are the sole options at any young lady's disposal. Tarrant had felt guilty about forcing more _pishsalver_ on her so soon, what when she'd been folded and unfolded like a living umbrella several times already that day. He would have liked to have got a better first look at her. He would also have liked to have fed her some _upelkuchen_ instead, but the urgency of the situation had demanded keeping her conveniently teapot-hat-and-pocket-sized, which Alice had borne with great dignity.

For, although she had shrunk, you see, she had also _matured_. Considerably.

On lifting the lid of the teapot, Tarrant had got an eyeful of something to which he had never previously given serious consideration, but ought to have. Alice was _not_ a child anymore, for no child could ever have boasted such long, graceful limbs or, indeed, such a flawlessly rounded bosom. The glimpse had been brief, true, but it had been enough for him to work with in fashioning a properly sized dress. He'd sworn to himself then and there that, as long as she was with him, she would not lack for perfectly tailored _habillement_. She still looked positively ravishing in blue.

He'd had to push the thought of _ravishing_ as far from his mind as possible.

The next time Tarrant had seen her, of course, she'd been seven feet tall and dressed in an unfairly flattering Red Court creation. It had taken every ounce of focus that he possessed, which was not _much_ , to keep his eyes from flitting in her direction while he spoke words of sickening persuasion to Her Vileness. But it had worked. 

Afterward, they'd been able to steal so very _little_ time together—time in which Alice had not only managed to recover his hat, but had also managed to remind him that he had no business letting Bloody Big-Head order him about. How unfortunate that he'd had to look up at her, and how much _more_ unfortunate that they'd been interrupted. He should have liked to try kissing her, even though her lips were improperly sized.

Alice is perfectly sized now, however, just as she'd been at Marmoreal and on the battlefield. She looks up at him expectantly, as if all the months of interminable waiting are the farthest thing from her mind, which is less orderly than it seems.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, blessing him with that strange, mad half-smile.

"I am giving serious thought," he says, "to swapping a riddle for a kiss. Will it work?"

"Let's skip the riddle altogether," Alice suggests, taking his face in her careful hands.

And so—thus perfectly sized _and_ matched—they do.


End file.
